The General Synopsis at 03:38 Hours
by Karshtakavaar
Summary: Trip isn't the only one sleeping badly in the Expanse.


This is another introspective piece; the sort of introspective that you get at about 4am in the morning when you can't sleep. This is set somewhere in Season 3.

For those of you who not familiar with the UK, the Shipping Forecast is a specific weather forecast for vessels in the waters around the UK. It's short, only lasting a minute or two. It goes out at regular intervals across the day on one of the BBC's national radio stations. The Pips are the Greenwich time signal.

Usual disclaimer. I'm not making any money from this. Enterprise and all her crew belong to Paramount.

**The General Synopsis at 03:38 Hours**

Cromarty, Forth, Tyne, Dogger. Ordered, aligned, ancient. On the nights when he can't sleep he turns to this. Broadcasts, recorded and beamed across space in small packages, voice only. Bouncing from beacon to beacon. Arriving, once a month, on Hoshi's board. One message, care of the BBC, for our brave boy in space. For the Brit on the bridge of the _Enterprise_, a little taste of home. The first time one arrived she'd been curious, he could tell. The one officer who never received any communications suddenly has a message from home. He had steeled his face to give nothing away, thanked her politely for the file, and moved on. After a while it had become routine. Mr Reed's mysterious message from Earth. Always arrived on the first of the month, always the same sender, always the same size. He was always tight lipped about its contents. The crew gossiped. Messages from a secret lover? Starfleet Special Ops? The cricket scores? Theories abounded. After the Xindi attack it ceased to matter to anyone but him. The crew had bigger worries than the Armoury Officer's mail. And so he lies here, in the dark, listening to those hypnotic tones.

Lundy, Fastnet, Irish Sea. Shannon, Rockall, Malin. If he closes his eyes he can see the map, the one pinned to his childhood bedroom wall. Green country, blue ocean, neat yellow lines dividing the squares off, one from another, dividing the sea into manageable chunks. They have divided space off into manageable chunks too, each one to be searched for the Weapon.

Hebrides, Bailey, Faroes, Fair Isle. It is easier to concentrate on the rhythm of it, the almost poetry of it, rather than think about the ship - the vessel full of souls whose security is his responsibility. Rather than think about the planet full of people whose lives depend on _Enterprise_ finding the Weapon and destroying it. The knowledge that they depend on him is cloying. They depend on him being alert. He needs sleep to be alert - but sleep is like love, the more you try to force it the further it slips from your grasp.

Viking, North Utsire, South Utsire. He finds himself listening to this more and more, these days. The first two years he barely used it. Now he can go through months in a single night. Winter storms to summer calm, all in the dark of a cabin millions of miles from an ocean. One day soon he will wake to find he has memorised the forecasts for the whole of March.

Forties. Southeast veering southwest four or five, occasionally six later. Thundery showers. Moderate or good, occasionally poor. Then there is Hayes. What is he here for? Oh, to lead the MACOs, certainly - but what else? It's obvious _Enterprises_' security is too weak to cope with the Xindi. It has always been too weak, Malcolm has argued this from the start - only now the Captain sees it too. If they get out of this alive perhaps he will keep the MACOs onboard. And who better to lead them than Hayes? Hayes the proven fighter, the tactician. No awkward spikes in his personality. And if he leads the MACOs then why not run the Armoury too? Hayes knows this, he is sure of it. He is manoeuvring, undermining him oh so subtly - but Malcolm can see it. Whether the Captain sees it too, Malcolm doesn't know. Perhaps Archer doesn't care who is in charge so long as the ship is safe.

Sole, Lundy, Fastnet. It's almost liturgical - a prayer for ancient mariners. Perhaps the prayer will protect this ship that sails the stars. Will protect this ancient mariner from seeing Insectoids in the shadows.

Dover, Wight, Portland, Plymouth. Crazy that they should even still be broadcasting it, he thinks. But Britain is like that. Slow to move and sentimental to a fault. We are an Island people with a maritime history. These broadcasts are our heritage, a part of all our childhoods. Without ever present history we have little sense of who we are. Malcolm knows his history all too well. A long line of naval men that culminates in...him. Sometimes he thinks he only listens to the broadcasts out of guilt - a long distance penance for his failure as a Reed. Sometimes, because they remind him of his childhood, of eating bread and honey at the kitchen table, feet swinging between the legs of the chair. Across the table his Father scowls as he reads, and on the radio the evening shipping forecast becomes the weather forecast becomes the Pips becomes the six o'clock news. Or maybe they're just a reminder of home. Of Trafalgar, Dunkirk and D-day. Of battles won against the odds. Red, white and blue through rose tinted spectacles.

Perhaps he should write a forecast of his own. The Shipping Forecast issued by Lieutenant Malcolm Reed on behalf of the crew of the starship _Enterprise_. The general synopsis at 03:38 hours. Crew tense. Heading ambiguous, course change imminent. Repairs to C deck severe backing moderate. Sudden Anomalies expected later.

Across the room the console chirrups at him. The playback has ended. He rolls out of bed, crosses the room and loads a new file. January to June 2152. Happier times. He presses the button and the announcer's voice murmurs in to the room,

"And now the Shipping Forecast issued by the Met Office..."

If the rest of the crew knew about this what would they say? Possibly nothing. The Captain's angry, on edge, frustrated. The Chief Engineer can't sleep. The Comms Officer jumps at shadows. The First Officer's a Vulcan and the CMO has a smile wide enough to swallow a shuttlepod. Not to mention a small zoo in sickbay. What's one more eccentric senior officer these days? Besides, he's English. Sometimes you have to live up to the stereotype.

He lies down, tries to relax. In a little under four hours he will return to being stalworth, unshakeable Lieutenant Reed. He will drill his security team, study intelligence reports and search for the Weapon. Calm. Detached. Professional. A rock of dependability for the crew - as an officer ought to be. In the wee small hours of the morning, though, he will listen to the poetry of ages past drowning out his fears. He will try to sleep. Cromarty, Forth, Tyne, Dogger. Fisher, German Bight, Humber, Thames.


End file.
